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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26690776">The Painting</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/laila555/pseuds/laila555'>laila555</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abusive Relationships, Angst, Art, Canon-Typical Violence, Cheating, Depression, F/M, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Self-Discovery, Unhealthy Relationships, originally posted 1999, spoilers for anything published before 2000</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:22:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,280</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26690776</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/laila555/pseuds/laila555</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Louis --" Marius hesitated.</p><p>"Yes?"</p><p>"Would you ever consider . . . sitting for me?"</p><p>Louis blinked in surprise. "I -- beg your pardon?"</p><p>"I've been meaning to ask for so long. I would so love to paint you."</p><p>***</p><p>Louis and Lestat take a trip to visit Marius in New York City, sometime after the events of Memnoch.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac, Lestat de Lioncourt/Original Female Character(s), Louis de Ponte du Lac/Marius de Romanus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote this story TWENTY YEARS AGO and published it on the old Rotoli de Luna (sp?) site.  Then I was out of fandom for a loooong time, basically most of the intervening years--but it has been amazing to see how fan works have gradually become mainstream, accepted, even celebrated.  This story somehow wound up posted on another site and I thought I would cross-post it here in case it gives anyone enjoyment in these strange times.</p><p>I was a little disturbed to see how violent parts of it are (my life was really not that exciting in high school, so not sure where I was coming up with all this). I'm tagging "abusive relationship" to be safe, but I think it's pretty canon-typical.  Let me know if I'm missing a tag.</p><p>Also, in the spirit of time-capsule, I am not changing a single word even though I'm cringing a little at typos/word choices etc.  (Why did I think a fancy car cost $750,000?  Again, high school me, not the most worldly.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"What on earth are you doing?"</p>
<p>The familiar derisive whisper came so close to his ear that Louis jerked away involuntarily to find Lestat regarding him with amusement, a full champagne glass in each hand. He gave one to Louis, who accepted it numbly. "You've been staring at that painting for forty minutes. People are starting to wonder."</p>
<p>Lestat was a colorful addition to the impressive crowd of the artistic echelon of New York society. Vibrant and charismatic, he fit in perfectly with the powerfully beautiful works that filled several rooms of the gallery: he seemed a walking work of art, fit to be admired, studied, revered. Louis watched, fascinated, as Lestat raised the fluted champagne glass to his mouth, letting the pale yellow liquid brush his lips slightly in a mimicry of drink before lowering it once more. He raised an eyebrow, smiling at Louis' pensiveness. "What are you thinking?"</p>
<p>"I was thinking how well you fit in here."</p>
<p>Lestat rolled his eyes. "Ye gods, I hope not. With these people?"</p>
<p>"With the paintings," Louis explained.</p>
<p>Lestat grinned, delighted. "Enchanting thought," he approved. His lips glistened slightly as he leaned forward to press Louis' mouth in a kiss.</p>
<p>Louis tasted heat and the dizzying bite of champagne before recovering himself and pulling away. "Don't," he hissed, painfully aware of eyes on the two of them.</p>
<p>"It's all right. I told everyone here that you're my lover."</p>
<p>"Lestat!" Louis glared. "You didn't!"</p>
<p>Lestat grinned and winked. "Don't be so prudish, Louis. This is downtown Manhattan in the twentieth century, not colonial Louisiana. Besides, it was the only way to rid myself of the obsequies attentions of Ms. Loretta Schweitzer and her fawning cohorts."</p>
<p>"Loretta Schweitzer?"</p>
<p>"The wife of the gallery owner and our gracious host for the evening."</p>
<p>Louis glanced over Lestat's shoulder at the cluster of over-dressed women, taking in the ostentatious sparkle of diamonds on doughy white bosoms, the dull champagne-glazed stare under mascara-clumped lashes, the plastered, glittering smiles. No doubt Lestat was just what they'd been waiting for, a gorgeous and charming young man who might not object to a little late-night art history discussion with the wife of a modern American aristocrat. Louis felt slightly sick as he looked away. "These are Marius' friends?"</p>
<p>Marius had been the one to invite them to the exclusive gallery opening, and Lestat had been so suddenly feverish for travel and excitement that Louis had been drawn along as well, happy to see Lestat so animated and eager for another chance to speak with Marius, whom he had not seen since their arrival. Louis liked the anonymity of the city and respected it's tough and unique beauty, and although mingling made him slightly nauseosus had to admit the paintings were exquisite.</p>
<p>"Oh, don't let them get to you, cher," Lestat scoffed. "You know what an irresistible fiend I am." He made the last statement low and husky, and Louis shivered despite himself. Lestat leaned in closer, almost pinning Louis against the wall with his lean, muscular frame. "Shall we toast?"</p>
<p>"To what, Lestat?" Louis asked warily, now extremely aware that the artwork was no longer the center of attention in the room, although the babble of conversation continued.</p>
<p>"To beautiful works of art," Lestat said, his eyes boring into Louis' own. Before Louis could reply Lestat's mouth was on his again.</p>
<p>Louis ducked out from under his arms, embarrassed. "Lestat, stop it!"</p>
<p>"What exactly is the problem, Louis?" Lestat was clearly annoyed this time. Louis was about to answer when he noticed Lestat's deft glance at the group of middle-aged women behind them, one of whom was staring at Louis enviously through a haze of platinum blond hair.</p>
<p>"The problem," he said tersely, "is you using me as some kind of toy to tease those women, especially when you know how I feel about these kinds of displays!"</p>
<p>Lestat was at once furiously defensive, which usually meant that Louis was right. "Are you completely insane?" he growled.</p>
<p>Louis refused to be intimidated. "It's inappropriate and rude, Lestat."</p>
<p>"Oh, grow up," Lestat snapped. "Go stare at your damn painting."</p>
<p>Louis watched, stung at the cruel tone, as Lestat stalked across the room. The blonde woman reached out to catch his arm as he passed by. "He's just lovely, darling," she said in a dry voice that Louis could barely pick up above the music and chatter. He watched Lestat shrug, and then lean in to whisper in her ear. He pulled away with an evil, triumphant glare at Louis as the woman burst into peals of high-pitched laughter.</p>
<p>Louis turned away angrily. It was silly, it was childish, he should know better than to let himself be upset like that. But it was no use: he had tumbled out of his brief peace as quickly as he had into it. Even the girl in the painting he had been staring at, drawn by the muted, gleaming colors and the subtle emotions he saw in the achingly familiar but implacable features seemed to be suddenly bleak and warmthless, the emptiness of her stare a mockery, the curl of her lips a sneer.</p>
<p>A hand suddenly clasped Louis' shoulder and he tensed under the firm grip. Only Lestat would be able to sneak up on him so easily.</p>
<p>"Don't touch me --" he began, shrugging out of the small embrace. The rest of the sentence dissolved in shock as he turned to discover himself face to face with Marius.</p>
<p>"Marius! I'm sorry. . ." Louis stared at the bewildered Roman.</p>
<p>"I apologize, Louis, I didn't mean to intrude--"</p>
<p>"No!" Louis blushed and lowered his voice. "I thought you were. . ." he gestured to the center of the large room, where Lestat was gaily holding court over his ever-increasing crowd of admirers.</p>
<p>Marius' face immediately softened into a smile. "Ah, yes. I see. He's more of a spectacle than the artwork, hm?" Marius' laughter was rich and deep, and Louis felt his defenses melting at the comforting sound of it.</p>
<p>"Thank you for inviting us, Marius," he said seriously. "It really is a spectacular collection."</p>
<p>Marius was nodding. "Yes, isn't it? Dameon Schweitzer has quite an eye for good artwork. I noticed you seem to have taken a particular interest in this portrait," he added, indicating the picture Louis had been contemplating.</p>
<p>"Yes, it's quite beautiful," Louis replied. And it was: talking with Marius had done something to restore the tranquility Louis had felt while gazing at the canvas, and he was once more able to appreciate the muted shimmer of the colors, the subtle emotion in the elusive features. "Whose is it?"</p>
<p>"It's one of mine, actually. Just a small portrait -- Dameon insisted that I showcase something here tonight."</p>
<p>"Marius -- this is magnificent! I'm very impressed."</p>
<p>Marius inclined his head. "Thank you. I thought you might have recognized her -- it's Pandora."</p>
<p>Louis took another look. Ah, yes, that's what had been eluding him. He had met Pandora only briefly but immediately recognized the graceful lines of Pandora's sculpted face, the gentle slope of her neck and shoulders. But Marius seemed to have captured something beyond the shape of her eye or the hue of her curly hair -- Louis saw a spark in this woman that he did not immediately associate with Pandora, a liveliness and strength that seemed alien to his image of her. This was the Pandora that Marius knew and loved, the girl that had existed before the silent and motionless beauty with whom Louis was acquainted.</p>
<p>"It's beautiful," he said again, deeply moved. Something else bothered him about the portrait, however, and as he peered at the healthy glow of Pandora's cheeks and the faint rosy blush along her throat he realized what it was. "Marius -- she looks . . . mortal."</p>
<p>Marius chuckled. "Yes, Louis," he said. "In art we are able to transcend our damnation."</p>
<p>At Marius' words Louis felt the old bitterness creep into his throat. Now is not the time, he reminded himself sternly. But despair was despair, and after two centuries of sin Louis was still unable to ignore it when the dark wave of morbidity crested within him. The absurd horror of it was gnawing at his mind: this woman, an unspeakable monster, turned into a fresh-faced young girl by a creature just as evil. Lestat, the very picture of an enchanting young gallant, lording it over a group of mortals who would die from fright if they could guess what thoughts and deeds lay behind that handsome face. And Louis himself, Louis who had killed a man tonight in order to be able to blend in with a crowd of mortals, holding a glass of champagne as if he could actually drink it.</p>
<p>"We can never cease to be damned," he whispered before he could stop himself.</p>
<p>Marius' face was kind, sympathetic as he slipped a hand beneath Louis' elbow, guiding him through the wide open doorway. "Come, Louis. The Schweitzers have quite a collection of classics in this room."</p>
<p>Louis was appalled. How could he have said such a thing to his host? It was exactly the kind of remark that would send Lestat into a rage, or into gales of laughter. But Marius seemed neither angry nor amused. "Marius, forgive me," he said. "That was uncalled for."</p>
<p>Marius shook his head, smiling. "Not at all. I'd like to discuss this with you."</p>
<p>"You owe me no explanations." Louis insisted. What right did he have to criticize the lifestyle of anyone else? God knows Lestat had asked him that question enough times.</p>
<p>But Marius was going on. "For what reason do you read your books, Louis? For what reason do you write?"</p>
<p>"I suppose. . . for escape? Or to try and bring coherence into the void. . ." Louis paused, surprised at himself.</p>
<p>"Yours is an analytic principal, then. Mine is an aesthetic one. You wish to live wholly in the mind, to come to terms with this admittedly horrifying existence through the thoughts of men, to create a bearable world using the speculations of others as your boundaries." Marius' voice was low and heavy: Louis found it as hypnotizing as the words themselves. "Whereas I use an artist's sensory appreciation as my shield against pain: I choose to see the world through the filter of beauty."</p>
<p>They had now entered another room and were standing before an enormous canvas. A battle scene.</p>
<p>Violent splashes of cannon fire streaked across the gun-metal gray of the open sky, the wounded and dying lay strewn over a vast expansive plain. Horses reared, frozen into postures of dumb animal frenzy, while underfoot paint glistened like sweat or tears on the brow of the soldiers. And above it all, the mounted warriors led onwards, battle colors flying gallantly over the ravaged scene.</p>
<p>Marius gazed at the canvas a moment before turning to Louis solemnly. "You see the lines, the color, the passion of the artist?" Louis made no reply. "This is how I can kill an innocent and savor the heat and the swoon. This is death made beautiful."</p>
<p>The champagne glass slipped from Louis' hand.</p>
<p>He had been so intent on Marius' words, his vision of art and beauty rising from the depths of degradation, that he had lost his sense of surroundings. The shattering of the glass on the wood floor sent a jolt through his body. A tight-lipped maid appeared out of nowhere to attack the mess, shooing him away as he bent to help collect the gleaming shards.</p>
<p>"That's alright," she said briskly. "I'll clean it up, sir."</p>
<p>Louis was no mind reader, but he caught one word loud and clear: drunk. He laughed despite himself as he straightened. "Marius," he said. "I'm sorry."</p>
<p>Marius waved this away. "It's nothing." The smile faded from Marius' face abruptly. "Louis, you're bleeding!"</p>
<p>Louis looked down: he had apparently cut himself on a piece of glass, and a crimson blot was spreading over one white palm. He drew in breath sharply.</p>
<p>"Here. Let me." Louis watched as Marius drew a handkerchief from his pocket, pressed it against the wound. The cut was already healing. These little indications of vampiric powers never ceased to unnerve Louis, and he looked around quickly to see if anyone had noticed the spectacle. The only one staring was Lestat, who was leaning against the doorway with his eyes fixed on Louis, frowning. Louis ignored him.</p>
<p>Pressing the cloth deeper into his hand, Louis struggled to rephrase his arguments in his mind. Surely what Marius proposed was an evil among evils, this perverted alchemy in which grief and torture were gilded by brush stroke into beauty. But had he not been guilty of the same crimes, by seeking to rationalize what was surely an existence too brutal, too depraved to be comprehended by mortal or immortal minds? Louis was at a loss under the weight of Marius' powerful gaze.</p>
<p>"Marius . . ."</p>
<p>"Yes, Louis?"</p>
<p>Louis found himself completely at a loss under the weight of Marius' kind but powerful gaze. He opened his mouth, closed it, laughed finally. "I have nothing to say," he admitted, spreading his hands. "You must forgive me. I don't know that I share in your theory, but I have no right to dispute it."</p>
<p>Marius smiled. "You have as much of a right as anyone to challenge me, Louis," he admonished. "You needn't apologize."</p>
<p>Louis bowed his head. "I don't know if art can transcend evil, but I agree that it certainly makes it more bearable," Louis continued. "The only times when I have been truly rapturous have been in the thrall of some great monument or piece of music."</p>
<p>Marius raised an eyebrow. "The only times, Louis?"</p>
<p>Louis colored slightly as he remembered a different kind of rapture he had experienced only the night before. "Well. . ."</p>
<p>"It seems to me that love, also, has the power to vanquish misery." Marius glanced at Lestat, who seemed to be making his way towards them through a throng of guests.</p>
<p>"Yes, of course, you're right," Louis mumbled. When he looked up he was surprised to see Marius studying him rather intently.</p>
<p>"Louis --" Marius hesitated.</p>
<p>"Yes?"</p>
<p>"Would you ever consider . . . sitting for me?"</p>
<p>Louis blinked in surprise. "I -- beg your pardon?"</p>
<p>"I've been meaning to ask for so long. I would so love to paint you."</p>
<p>"I -- " Louis stopped. "I don't think. . ."</p>
<p>"There's no need to answer right away." Marius dropped his eyes and Louis felt palpable relief at being released from that open appraisal. Marius was searching in the pocket of his overcoat and handed Louis a small rectangular card. "This is the address of my private studio here," he said. "You are of course welcome any time, even just to talk. You and Lestat are staying in the penthouse, are you not?</p>
<p>"Yes." Marius owned the top floor of a well-known hotel in the city, which he had altered with thick curtains and skylight blinds to fit his needs. He had offered it to Louis and Lestat during their stay, insisting on staying elsewhere to allow the two of them optimum safety and comfort.</p>
<p>"You both are free to stay as long as you wish," he said. "And I would so love to have you come by to see me."</p>
<p>Louis searched for an appropriate response. "I'll try," he said finally.</p>
<p>"Try what?" Lestat appeared suddenly behind them "Louis, you should really try the hors d'oeuvres. Or perhaps you'd prefer to smash a few of them into the rug?" He looked pointedly at the now-impeccable spot on the floor where a puddle of champagne had rested minutes before.</p>
<p>"Oh, stop it," Louis said wearily. He was in no mood to be baited.</p>
<p>Lestat ignored him. "I most apologize for my companion, Marius," he continued, turning to the elder vampire. "I'm afraid he doesn't get out much."</p>
<p>"Lestat, that is enough," Marius broke in, startling both of his guests with the sternness in his voice.</p>
<p>"Louis obviously meant no harm and no harm was done."</p>
<p>Lestat opened him mouth as if to retort, then seemed to think better of it. "Well, thank you for inviting us, anyway," he muttered.</p>
<p>"You're welcome. I was just telling Louis that you're welcome to stay as long as you'd like, tonight and in the city in general."</p>
<p>Lestat was nodding thoughtfully. "Yes, I think I will stay here a while," he said.</p>
<p>Marius smiled. "Good. Now, I'm afraid I'm expected to be mingling. I hope to see you soon." With a final glance at Louis he left the two of them to disappear into another room.</p>
<p>Louis was still reeling from Lestat's comment about staying in the city. Did he think he could make statements like that without consulting Louis? Or did he mean for Louis to go back alone to New Orleans? Did he want some time apart?</p>
<p>Lestat was eyeing him suspiciously. "What were you and Marius talking about?" he said finally.</p>
<p>"The artwork, of course."</p>
<p>Lestat snorted. "For twenty minutes?"</p>
<p>"People spend hours talking about artwork, Lestat," Louis pointed out, amused. "It's not at all unusual."</p>
<p>"You're not people," Lestat growled.</p>
<p>Louis let the remark slide. Lestat was being unusually antagonistic, even for him. He was wondering whether to press the issue further when Lestat suddenly turned to him, his face open.</p>
<p>"Let's stay in New York for a while."</p>
<p>Louis felt relief course through him and tried not to show it: Lestat wanted him to stay. He wanted them to be together. Louis smiled. "I'd like that," he said softly. "I'd like that very much."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They stayed at the gallery until two in the morning, whereupon Lillian Schweitzer and most of the younger crowd, all of whom had toasted themselves into oblivion with champagne and wine spritzers, had opted for a change of locale. There was an all-night bar just around the corner. And of course they all had begged Lestat to come.</p><p>"You'll like it," he had insisted to Louis as he wrapped a white cashmere scarf around his neck. "Music. Dancing. This is a vampire's city, Louis -- no one goes to bed before dawn."</p><p>But Louis had put his foot down: he'd had enough of this exhausting mingling. Marius had taken his leave earlier and had introduced Louis to Schweitzer himself. The greying, powerfully built man had insisted that Louis stay as long as he liked in the gallery while the maids cleaned up and he took stock of his new treasures. The man was obviously half-drunk himself, but Louis accepted his offer eagerly.</p><p>Lestat had pleaded, cajoled and finally grown frustrated, leaving in a huff amidst his crowd of inebriated admirers. Louis had tried not to hear the insults he carelessly flung over his shoulder.</p><p>Once the salon had cleared out, Louis fell into a sort of trance as he wandered from room to room, the colors and images swirling before his eyes into a kind of collage. Marble sculptures seemed to shiver with life under his fingers, painted figures followed him with their eyes. He found himself coming back again and again to the portrait of Pandora, hearing in his mind Marius' words, wondering at the life-giving properties of art.</p><p>It was past four-thirty when the door burst open.</p><p>He turned and was surprised to see that Dameon was seated in a dark blue velvet armchair, staring at Louis. Louis wondered how long he'd been there. And Lestat, brushing snow off the shoulders off of his suede jacket, was staring at Dameon.</p><p>"Lestat! What--"</p><p>Lestat took three quick strides to where Louis was standing, grabbed him by the arm. "Come on. We're leaving," he said shortly.</p><p>Dameon rose to his feet. "You're welcome to stay the night here, if it's too late. . ." he said, spreading his hands graciously.</p><p>Louis was puzzled at the strange offer. "No, thank you, we've --"</p><p>"We're leaving now," Lestat snapped, practically dragging Louis out of the room.</p><p>He waited until they were out on the streets to speak: "That was rude, Lestat. He was trying to be nice." Louis glared.</p><p>"Miserable bastard," Lestat muttered, pulling Louis along the sidewalk.</p><p>"He was a very gracious host! He's been--"</p><p>Lestat interrupted him. "Do you have any idea what your 'gracious host' was thinking about you as you wandered blithely through his precious paintings?"</p><p>Louis turned to his maker, trying to glean whether he was lying. Lestat's face was hard and unreadable.</p><p>"He was fantasizing about ripping your clothes off," he said. "He was thinking that while his wife was off gallivanting he wouldn't mind having a little fun himself, tying you up, holding you down--"</p><p>"I don't want to hear this."</p><p>"Chains, whips, leather--"</p><p>"I said that's enough!"</p><p>The heat in his voice made Lestat turn. He immediately assumed a stricken expression: he knew he'd crossed the line. "Louis. . ."</p><p>"And let go of my arm!" Louis yanked his elbow out of Lestat's firm grasp. He walked a few yards before he realized Lestat wasn't following: turning, he saw his companion standing beside a silver Jaguar convertible. "What are you doing? Why are you standing there?"</p><p>Lestat shrugged. "Get in."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"I bought it off one of the guests."</p><p>"You what!" Louis couldn't quite believe his ears.</p><p>Lestat grinned and nodded. "Three-quarters of a million dollars. Cash."</p><p>"Oh, Mon Dieu." Louis threw up his hands, exasperated. Lestat waited expectantly. "All right. Fine."</p><p>"Good." Lestat started up the engine as Louis reluctantly walked back to the car, slid into the leather seat. He was too tired to fight.</p><p>Slush pelted the window as Lestat peeled onto the street.</p><p>The car ride to the hotel was silent: Louis responded half-heartedly to Lestat's attempts at conversation until Lestat finally gave up. Their arrival was met with flabbergasted panic by the bellboy, an acne-ridden youth who had obviously not been expecting guests tonight, especially not guests in the habit of dispensing hundred-dollar tips.</p><p>Louis refused to be impressed by the gilded vases of fresh-cut roses, the high ceilings or lavish, gold-woven wallpaper of the pent-house suite. He went immediately to the window, looking out over the skyline as he listened to Lestat's movements from the other room. He pressed his face against the cool glass: the sky was lightening. It was barely perceptible still, but he could see it, could almost taste the impending approach of the sun. He had perhaps half an hour, perhaps less.</p><p>"Are you still mad at me?"</p><p>Louis was startled. Amazing, how Lestat could sneak up on him so easily. "Yes," he said candidly. Lestat's face fell. "Oh, I don't know. Why?"</p><p>Lestat shrugged, shifting to lean against the wall so that their faces were inches apart. His eyes were wide and sincere. "You've been acting so stand-offish. . ." Lestat whispered.</p><p>Louis smiled. Hopeless, I'm hopeless, he thought as, unable to resist, he reached out to tentatively brush his fingers through Lestat's loose blond hair. He could already feel himself forgetting the hurt, falling under the old spell. "You were rude tonight," he reminded his companion softly.</p><p>"I know," Lestat murmured. "But you'll forgive me, won't you?" Without waiting for a reply Lestat kissed him, his tongue probing, urgent and demanding for the briefest of moments before he drew back.</p><p>"You didn't answer my question," he said as if he'd done nothing. "Are you or aren't you?"</p><p>"I'm not mad at you," Louis said, breathless from the intensity of the sudden embrace. "Just --"</p><p>Lestat silenced him with another kiss, this one longer and deeper.</p><p>" -- don't do it again," Louis managed to finish as Lestat pulled away. He didn't need to open his eyes to see Lestat's grin: he heard it in the words.</p><p>"I promise, Louis."</p><p>I don't believe you, Louis thought, but Lestat's mouth was on his again, he was forcing Louis' lips apart, turning so that he was pressing him up against the wall and all coherent thought fled Louis' mind as he felt himself responding helplessly, his arms finding their way across that powerful back, his breath harsh and ragged with desire as those lips burned a trail across his jaw, his throat. He felt the aching sweet stab against his neck and cried out, unable to speak, yes, I forgive you, I need you, anything, anything, just please don't ever stop. . .</p><p>Louis' knees weakened and he sank to the floor, arms still locked around Lestat's neck.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Louis awoke in a tangle of sheets, lying horizontally across the lavish four-poster bed. Disoriented, he pushed himself up on his elbows and surveyed the room, blinking. Someone, presumably Lestat, had already opened the heavy opaque drapes, and the dazzling glow of the city skyline filled the otherwise dark room with a soft electric luminescence. Louis looked down at the white satin sheet around his waist: a trail of blood spread like a flame over the delicate fabric, testimony the delirious violence of the night before, and Louis touched it with his finger wistfully, reverently.</p>
<p>"Lestat?" he called.</p>
<p>His voice seemed to echo too loudly through the suite, and Louis was suddenly sure he was alone. Sighing resolutely, he slide gracefully off the mattress. Perhaps Lestat was in the next room.</p>
<p>Louis hadn't seen much of their new quarters upon their late arrival, and long after he had confirmed his suspicion that Lestat was, indeed, gone, he continued to roam the few but elegant and spacious rooms, pulling the satin sheet behind him like a train. He was fascinated with the luxury of this place that was so unlike the aristocratic beauty of the flat on Rue Royale: this was a cleaner, more modern aesthetic, and Louis found it was not difficult at all to imagine Marius moving among the stylish furniture and bold colors, the majestic skyline a constant and powerful backdrop. The bath was cool marble with an enormous skylight: a lively saltwater fishtank was the main decoration of the sitting room. Good taste, innovation and a surprising sense of humor abounded.</p>
<p>The only room in the suite that lacked the cutting-edge flavor of the rest was a small study that Louis discovered by accident, assuming a closet or pantry. Here was the wine-dark wood and somber lighting, the stocked bookshelves filled with leathery volumes, the worn chair pulled up to a large mahogany desk. This was a room Louis could relate to, and here he lingered, running a slender finger down the spine of a book on Renaissance sculptors, feeling the warmth and honesty of old wood on his skin as he ran a hand down the smooth desktop. A painting hung in an unused, dusty corner, and as Louis struggled to make out the half-hidden features he realized with a shock that he was looking at the deceptively cherubic face of Armand, Armand with his face hidden coyly by an abundance of auburn hair. Armand's skin seemed to glow, his eyes to burn with the familiar heady pull that Louis knew only too well, and Louis was again amazed at the depth of Marius' ability to capture a soul on canvas.</p>
<p>Louis' reverie was shattered the keen intrusion of the door chimes. Expecting that Lestat had not thought to take a key with him, Louis started for the door to the suite still wrapped in the sheet, but thought better of it at the last moment and pulled on a dark blue robe, knotting it haphazardly around his slender waist. Not bothering to check the peephole, he opened the door.</p>
<p>Marius stood before him.</p>
<p>Louis took a step back and clutched at his robe instinctively, startled and annoyed with himself at being once again caught off guard. He recovered quickly and opened the door wider.</p>
<p>"Good evening, Marius."</p>
<p>The other vampire nodded. "Good evening, Louis. May I come in?"</p>
<p>"Of course," Louis said, moving back to allow Marius entry. "This is your home."</p>
<p>He followed Marius into the sitting room before he excused himself for a moment to change, mortified at having to receive such a distinguished visitor in his bathrobe. Hurrying into the bedroom he was extremely frustrated to find that his suitcase was nowhere in sight: Lestat had obviously done some arranging before he left, but there was no time to search the premises for their belongings. Louis grabbed his wool dress pants he had worn the night before from under the bed, and since his own shirt had become somewhat mangled during Lestat's advances he pulled on Lestat's own shirt which hung on one bedpost, buttoning hastily as he left the room.</p>
<p>Marius was studying the fish tank, the blue electric glow of its fluorescence coloring his pale, impassive face. Louis cleared his throat.</p>
<p>Straightening, Marius gave him a rich smile. "Sit down, Louis. I have to talk to you about something." Puzzled, Louis took a seat in a wooden straight-backed chair and waited. Marius stood looking down at him sternly.</p>
<p>"Dameon Schweitzer was attacked last night," he dead panned.</p>
<p>Louis' mouth dropped open. "Attacked?"</p>
<p>Marius nodded. "There were . . . unusual puncture wounds in the throat area," he explained. "And substantial loss of blood. Also he was robbed."</p>
<p>Louis sank into the chair. "Lestat," he breathed.</p>
<p>"That was my assumption."</p>
<p>"Marius, I don't know what to say." Louis paused, letting it sink in. "Lestat is . . ." but how could he expect to justify this, really? He couldn't imagine what had possessed Lestat to do such a reckless thing.</p>
<p>"You don't need to apologize for him," Marius said, his voice gentler. "Can you tell me where he is?"</p>
<p>Louis shrugged numbly. "I have no idea. I haven't seen him all night."</p>
<p>"Haven't seen him all night?" Marius seemed genuinely confused. "Did you two -- have a fight?"</p>
<p>"No, he's often gone when I wake," Louis explained.</p>
<p>Marius raised an eyebrow. "You mean he left you sleeping?"</p>
<p>Louis nodded and the room descended into silence as Marius seemed to lose himself, staring back at Louis who returned the gaze curiously.</p>
<p>"I know why he did it," Marius said softly, and as Louis opened his mouth to ask why suddenly he knew, too, and looked down, embarrassed. Words were coming back to him, Lestat's words: Do you have any idea what your 'gracious host' was thinking about you as you wandered blithely through his precious paintings? God, Lestat, he thought bitterly. You have a strange way of showing that you care.</p>
<p>"Marius," he said slowly. "I'm . . . I must apologize . . ."</p>
<p>"I told you, you must do nothing of the sort," the Roman replied kindly. "I am well acquainted with Lestat's power trips. He can be a jealous creature.</p>
<p>"I despise it," Louis said dully. "It's . . . it's beyond maddening."</p>
<p>"And Lestat . . ." The question hung in the air.</p>
<p>Louis raised his head. "I love him," he said steadily.</p>
<p>Marius sat back. Louis let him stare, for once determined not to move his eyes or change his expression. If Marius thought Louis a fool for his devotion, so be it. Louis wasn't about to make denials. And this time, it was Marius who finally looked away.</p>
<p>"I've never seen anything quite like you, Louis de Pointe du Lac," he remarked, half to himself.</p>
<p>Louis had no response to that.</p>
<p>"Please let Lestat know that I was here," Marius continued, rising.</p>
<p>Louis rose with him. "Of course. He'll be sorry he missed you," he said.</p>
<p>"I don't think so." Marius was smiling. "Not tonight. And Louis --"</p>
<p>"Yes?"</p>
<p>"Please do take my earlier offer seriously."</p>
<p>"Yes, I will."</p>
<p>Marius nodded. "Thank you. I wish I could stay here longer but I'm afraid I'm expected somewhere."</p>
<p>"That's all right, Marius. I'll walk you out."</p>
<p>After Marius had left, Louis leaned with his back against the door, letting his mind drift. He needed to go out, and with that thought came the old hurt, the burning guilt and despair, but he let it flare and die in his mind without giving it too much thought. He needed to find Lestat, but this, too, he put aside: for the moment he wanted to think of nothing real, to contemplate his love and his evil only as abstractions. With Marius' philosophy of art he examined his life critically, a blood-red tableau, his metaphysical soul laid out on canvas behind his eyes.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eight nights later, Louis was mildly shocked to discover himself standing on the brick steps of Marius' downtown studio apartment, his hand poised above the bell. He hadn't expected to come, hadn't meant to come, really: and yet there he stood, and it seemed to him suddenly that he had been moving towards this moment ever since Marius had come to the penthouse suite the night after the gallery party.</p>
<p>Louis had waited for almost three hours that night, growing increasingly impatient as he wandered the rooms with thirst burning in his throat, until he heard the door burst open just before eleven. He was walking through the sitting room towards the entry way when he was stopped in his tracks by the sound of a woman's throaty laughter filling the front hallway, chorused by Lestat's familiar low chuckle.</p>
<p>"Louis!" Lestat was suddenly filling the doorway, melting snowflakes darkening his hair and the lapels of his wool jacket. Leaning over his shoulder was a tall red-headed woman. Before Louis could so much as open his mouth, Lestat was by his side, gripping his shoulder with one leather-gloved hand. "Louis, allow me to present Marjorie Reynolds, editor of Vogue magazine and board member of the Manhattan Modern Art Society."</p>
<p>The woman had darted into the room after Lestat, and now she held out her hand with a giggle. Louis was too bemused to do anything but shake it. He was slightly flustered by the sudden dazzle of color and noise that had filled the heretofore peaceful and still chamber: the woman's blue eyes snapped and crackled like a laser, and her sleek, chin-length hair was much to brilliant to be anything but a dye job. "Oh, how wonderful to meet you! I noticed you at the gallery the other night but we never got a chance to speak. Are you from the Institute as well?"</p>
<p>"Excuse me?" Louis asked dryly.</p>
<p>She had not let go of his hand and he extricated it discretely from her grasp as she continued. "I told Andrei that he could model for me anytime he wanted to." She had stepped back slightly and now appeared to be examining Louis' face with a critical eye. "We're always looking for new faces. Have you ever been photographed, Mr. . ."</p>
<p>"Smith," he supplied, then turned to Lestat. "May I speak to you for a moment, 'Andrei?'"</p>
<p>In the quiet calm of the study, Lestat was all mischievousness and suppressed jubilance. "Smith?" he cackled, his voice a low, hysterical whisper. "Oh, that's good, Louis, that's very, very, good. I should ask you for consultation the next time I open an account, I mean, really --"</p>
<p>"Marius was here tonight," Louis interrupted.</p>
<p>Lestat had been glancing off towards the door, as if he could see their guest through the lacquered wood (and, Louis supposed, he probably could) but now his eyes swivelled back to Louis. The hilarity in them had instantly been replaced by a kind of wary suspicion. His voice was carefully controlled when he spoke.</p>
<p>"Really? What did he say?" he asked nonchalantly.</p>
<p>"He said that Dameon Schweitzer was attacked last night." Louis gave Lestat a moment to digest this, then Lestat smiled broadly and shrugged.</p>
<p>"Good! Bastard deserved it."</p>
<p>"Lestat, you are despicable and petty."</p>
<p>"Oh, Louis!" Lestat threw his hands in the air. "He's not dead, right? Not even seriously injured, right? All I did was scare him a little."</p>
<p>Louis couldn't believe his ears. "Why, Lestat?" he whispered harshly, fighting not to raise his voice and alarm the woman in the other room.</p>
<p>Lestat dropped his eyes. "Because I wanted to," he mumbled.</p>
<p>Louis slammed his hand down on the bookshelf. "That is not an acceptable answer, dammit!"</p>
<p>Lestat looked up again. "I didn't like the way he was looking at you," he said darkly.</p>
<p>"So you can invite any mortal woman you happen to take a fancy to over to our private residence, duping her with god knows what kind of lies, but I can't even be seen by someone without you striking out in an ugly attack like this?"</p>
<p>Lestat sneered in response to this outburst. "I refuse to argue with you about this," he said, moving towards the door.</p>
<p>"You could at least think of Marius," Louis said desperately, and Lestat paused.</p>
<p>"Is he angry at me?"</p>
<p>"I should hope so!"</p>
<p>"Well, I'm sorry to have caused him pain."</p>
<p>The door opened and closed, and in the silence that followed came ringing girlish laughter from the other side and the rich deep tenor of Lestat's voice. Louis leaned back against the desk, wondering if Lestat's last statement had somehow been an apology meant for him. He decided it wasn't.</p>
<p>The next few nights were spent in agonizing contemplation for Louis, as he watched Lestat charm his new friends into dazzled fascination. He spent every night out dancing or in clubs, relishing the worshiping eyes and quick-to-laugh voices of the night crowd. Sometimes Louis would walk to meet him at some club or another, and he knew that they wondered about him, these sleek modern cavorters, these wild Manhattan singles whose eyes glowed as fiercely as the embers of their cigarettes. He knew they wondered as Lestat wound his arm around Louis' waist, as he leaned over with casual intimacy to brush his lips against Louis' jaw. And because he could not bear their cold, speculating stares and false, glittery smiles Louis stopped coming to those places.</p>
<p>He would spend the night instead in wandering, riding the subway for hours, lost in the anonymity of the shuffling faces and steady squealing echo of the trains. He would walk the city streets, skirting the glitz of the downtown theater district, past the tough bohemia of Greenwich Village and into the dark, prowling shadows of alphabet city, allowing his mind to wander through the broken glass of the past. He was alone with his sin and his pain in a city breathless with sin and pain, and there was a kind of peace in that, Louis found as he prowled dark alleys for victims, as he sat for hours in the spellbinding beauty of St. Patrick's Cathedral.</p>
<p>And every night Lestat would come reeling in towards dawn, and although Louis hated himself for it he lived for that moment, he both abhorred and craved the rough hands pulling him forward, the demanding mouth against his own, pressing him into the floor or the bed. Lestat was in his element, he was happy, Louis reasoned. Let him do what he wanted, let him come in at dawn and leave at sunrise, let him enjoy the admiration of his new cohorts. He was getting something from them that he could not get from Louis, and Louis was willing to accept that, as he was willing to shoulder the old loneliness that was not so much being alone as it was the drift, the purposeless monotony of his life, night after night a life taken, and for what? For what?</p>
<p>And so, on the eighth night, his feet turned towards the address printed on the card Marius had handed him, and although he had not set out to arrive there on that night he found himself, at nine-thirty, standing there on the brick stoop with snow blowing against his coat and his finger on the doorbell.</p>
<p>He was filled with a momentary panic: what was this? A cry for help? He had never sought out someone like this, not since the dream-like nights of searching for Lestat before the California concert debacle. Suddenly longing for Lestat slammed into Louis like a physical blow, and he almost cried out. The grand irony of the paradox struck him: here was a creature who could cause Louis more pain than anything in the world, when Louis thought that he had lived too long and seen too much darkness to feel pain anymore -- and yet without this creature Louis knew he would die. He asked nothing from the world in which he raged like a silent, deadly disease. He needed nothing from its inhabitants. And yet he was all at once aching with an unfamiliar and undeniable need to be touched, to be seen by someone, to be convinced that he was not just a figment of Lestat's imagination, that the world was not a figment of his own.</p>
<p>The cold bit at his face, and without bothering to turn up his collar against the sting he pushed the bell before he had time to flee back down the steps into the darkness of a city that he suddenly realized was drawing him nearer and nearer to a despair from which he might never return.</p>
<p>The doorbell to Marius' studio produced not the harsh electric buzzing that Louis had grown accustomed to but a deep, satisfying chime that he could hear even through the heavy oak. The door opened almost immediately and Louis found himself face to face with a thin, birdlike woman who looked to be in her fifties. "Can I help you?"</p>
<p>Louis could sense her apprehension as she peered into the darkness at the unfamiliar figure. He had been expecting Marius' kind, impassive face, and was slightly taken aback by the graying wraith that stood before him. He recovered himself quickly and made a small bow. "Yes, I'm looking for Marius. Is he in?"</p>
<p>"Mr. Romanus is out at the moment," she replied curtly. "Is he expecting you?"</p>
<p>"No." Louis was rapidly becoming convinced the coming here had been a horrible mistake, and began to back away from the rectangle of soft yellow light that illuminated the doorway, towards the embracing darkness behind him. "I'm sorry to bother you. Goodnight."</p>
<p>"Wait!" The woman stepped out into the street, wincing at the brutal wind. Her voice had softened somewhat, and her features seemed youthful and almost pretty when stamped with compassion. "Would you like to come in and wait for him? He'll be back within the hour."</p>
<p>"I . . . really don't mean to trouble you. . ."</p>
<p>"It's freezing cold out here," she retorted. "You'll catch your death." She grabbed hold of Louis' sleeve before he could pull away, and he soon found himself standing on a richly woven oriental rug in a candlelit hallway, the wind beating jealously against the door that now separated him from the elements.</p>
<p>Tentatively, he unclenched his fingers and found that the warmth of the apartment felt good. He looked up at the woman. "Thank you," he said.</p>
<p>She tilted her head. "Follow me and I'll show you to his study," she said. "That's where he usually receives his guests. Shall I take your coat?"</p>
<p>"No -- thank you," he replied as she reached for him. He pulled the folds of the thin material tighter around him, feeling slightly ridiculous. "I'd rather keep it, if you don't mind."</p>
<p>"Suit yourself." She was walking down the short hallway, and Louis saw that the torches mounted in the wall were not flames at all but electric lights that flickered as subtly as fire, lending the hall a medieval sobriety. The makeshift studio seemed much larger than he had initially thought from the street view: it was located between a strip of nondescript residential buildings and a wide alley. Louis watched as the woman opened a large carved door to the left.</p>
<p>The room was large and windowless, and like the study in the penthouse retained a subdued, classical tone, something having to do with the dark gold oak of the floor and moldings, the large brick fireplace, the modest but lovely chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Assorted canvases lay stacked in piles or leaned against corners, although the walls were bare, and a large wooden easel was set up in one end of the room, a tall stool behind it. There were more bookshelves, a cluttered worktable, and a rather worn pair of armchairs on a rug before the fireplace. An enormous closet loomed silently in one corner, and Louis imagined rows of dull metal paint cans and myriad bone-handled brushes within.</p>
<p>"I'll bring you some tea," the woman offered as she pulled the door behind her.</p>
<p>"That won't be necessary," Louis insisted hastily, but she frowned at him.</p>
<p>"Nonsense. I can feel the cold rising off you like steam. A body needs to be fueled in this kind of weather." She was gone before he could protest, and Louis was left smiling ruefully and a little bitterly at her departing words.</p>
<p>Yes, cold, he thought, and if only you knew, chere, what it is that I need . . .</p>
<p>Feeling slightly self-conscious, Louis paced the room slowly, then slipped behind the paint-stained table. Several stacks of messily piled papers lay strewn over the surface, and Louis began to flip through them idly. They were sketches, for the most part, here and there a hastily finished watercolor. Here a still life of a human skull, the contours seeming to leap out from the page, and here a woman's face, the features thin and attractive and naggingly familiar until Louis realised they belonged to the woman who had answered the door. He continued to sift, through half-finished figures and shaded objects and the faces of strangers. Halfway through a pile he froze and stared in disbelief at the paper he held in his hand.</p>
<p>It was a sketch of a young man at rest, the mouth slack and relaxed, the lowered lashes so long they almost brushed his cheeks. Even at this early stage it was impossible to mistake the identity: this was a picture of Louis.</p>
<p>The creak of the door hinges made him look up, half-expecting the woman with the needless cup of tea. But it was Marius, his face flushed and warm, and he was smiling as if not at all surprised at his unannounced visitor.</p>
<p>"Louis. Welcome to my studio. I'm so glad you could come."</p>
<p>"Hello, Marius," Louis replied carefully.</p>
<p>Marius glanced at the paper Louis still held, and Louis dropped it hastily. Marius bowed his head. "I hope you'll forgive me for taking the liberty, Louis," he said, gesturing to the sketch. "I made it in case you . . . ever decided to come here."</p>
<p>"You drew it. . ."</p>
<p>"From memory."</p>
<p>Louis shook his head. "I . . . don't know what to say. I'm amazed."</p>
<p>"Thank you."</p>
<p>Louis raised his head. "I've thought about your offer, Marius, and I agree."</p>
<p>"Agree?"</p>
<p>"I'll sit for you."</p>
<p>Marius was silent for a moment. "I'm very glad to hear that, Louis," he replied.</p>
<p>The intimate way in which he spoke the words was startling, and Louis rushed to fill the following silence. "It is the least I could do," he explained. "To repay you for your kindness and your . . . your hospitality . . ." Marius' eyes were boring into his own, and he was losing his focus in them.</p>
<p>"That's not why you're here," Marius said softly.</p>
<p>Louis could not drag his eyes away; he was helpless. "No," he whispered.</p>
<p>The crisp knock on the studio door made them both jump a little, and Louis shook his head, dazed, released from the spell, as the door opened and the woman stepped in.</p>
<p>"I've brought your guest some hot tea, Mr. Romanus," she offered, clutching a silver tray laden with cup, saucer, cream and sugar. "He was a brick of ice when he walked in here." Marius laughed, a rich, golden sound, and Louis relaxed instantly at the sound of it.</p>
<p>"I'm afraid, my dear, that Louis does not drink tea," he said, draping an arm lightly over the woman's thin shoulders.</p>
<p>"Well, how was I supposed to know that?" she replied, slightly mortified.</p>
<p>Marius chuckled. "You mustn't let Julia boss you around, Louis," he said with mock seriousness.</p>
<p>Louis smiled. "She is very gracious."</p>
<p>"Well, I guess I'll just go and dump this down the sink," Julia said mournfully.</p>
<p>"Nonsense," Marius protested. "Sit in the kitchen and drink it. You're far too pale yourself."</p>
<p>Julia sighed, gave him a rueful look and nodded once to Louis, who nodded back as she disappeared through the door. Her brief entrance had broken the heady seriousness of the room, and Louis felt much more at ease as Marius crossed the room to his easel.</p>
<p>"I'm afraid I really don't know how this is done," he said apologetically. "Would you like me to sit?"</p>
<p>Marius glanced up, appeared to think for a moment. "Actually, if you don't mind, I'd rather have you stand," he said. "Turn towards me a little. Now come closer. Good. Just try to relax. We won't do much tonight."</p>
<p>Louis nodded, took a deep breath. "All right. I'm ready."</p>
<p>Marius nodded, a ghost of a smile hovering around his lips as he took in the slender figure standing before him. He turned to the closet behind him and drew out a palette, a brush, a long piece of charcoal. He turned back to Louis.</p>
<p>"By all means. Let us begin."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Would you mind taking off your coat?"</p><p>"What?" Louis was jarred at the sudden request, spoken into an ever-deepening pool of silence: he'd almost forgotten Marius was there. "My coat?"</p><p>"It's rather shapeless, if you don't mind me saying -- it's hard to get a clear outline of your torso." Marius was looking down as he said it, scraping paint off of one of the small, fine- handled brushes, and Louis wondered vaguely how long they'd been working.</p><p>Marius had grown serious almost immediately, his face burning with intensity, and Louis had stood stiffly under the hot scrutiny of those eyes that flicked rapidly back and forth, unnerved by the frantic, unabated pace of brush against paper, his skin tingling under the pressure of that stare. But eventually he'd fallen into a kind of spell, lulled by the close silence of the windowless room into a two- dimensional palace of diffused memories that had lost their power to hurt, a soundless collage of his past. It was a place he'd visited before, during times when his mind had screamed for release and he'd welcomed the refuge of the waking-dream that diluted his sorrows for the briefest of moments -- In this trance-like state the old images were dulled and painless: the brother's face, the lover's eyes were colorless and empty, and the haunting laughter of a doll-sized monster became gray and lusterless as twilight.</p><p>"Louis?" Marius had abandoned his brushes for a moment and was looking up, concerned.</p><p>Louis shook his head to clear it and shrugged out of his coat unhesitatingly. "Better?" he asked as he slung the offending garment over the edge of a chair.</p><p>"Much!" Marius abruptly ripped the large page from his canvas and attached a fresh sheet.</p><p>My god, is he starting over? Louis wondered, astonished. Marius' eyes were already renewing a feverish, focused glaze as he renewed his attacks on the canvas.</p><p>Louis himself did not return to semi-catatonia but found instead, to his embarrassment, that the cold was bothering him more than he had expected. He hadn't fed before he'd come, and that coupled with the drink that Lestat had taken before dawn the night before had left Louis unsatisfied and gaunt. The shirt he was wearing was worn thin almost to transparency. He couldn't bring his arms up to warm himself for fear of disturbing the pose, and he would have sooner frozen than admitted to Marius his appallingly low tolerance for weather. The high stone walls of the studio seemed to be radiating their coolness towards him, and as the night wore on Louis began to imagine he could hear the sharp howl of the wind through the deserted, icy streets. Despite himself, he soon began to shiver.</p><p>An hour went by before Marius, drained but content, laid the brush aside for a moment and began to massage his eyes.</p><p>"Is something wrong?" Louis asked softly.</p><p>"No, quite the contrary." Marius looked up at him, and although his eyes had been glued to Louis' still form for most of the evening he seemed to be seeing Louis for the first time in. "I haven't --" he paused suddenly, frowning. "Are you cold?"</p><p>Louis straightened. "No."</p><p>But Marius had risen, and before Louis could protest had closed the distance between them and seized both Louis' hands in his. "My god, you're freezing!" He exclaimed. His voice was filled with anger, presumably directed towards himself. "I've been unforgivably rude."</p><p>"Marius, I assure you, it's nothing," Louis insisted, alarmed. "I have long ceased to care about cold." Marius said nothing to this. He hadn't let go of Louis' hands, and now he slowly brought one hand up to tentatively touch Louis' face.</p><p>Louis drew back, flustered and inexplicably light-headed. All at once he was finding it difficult to breathe. "Marius," he whispered.</p><p>The elder vampire cupped Louis' jaw briefly, tenderly, and then drew back as if reluctant to do so. Louis remained where he was, his head spinning.</p><p>"I've kept you far too long," Marius said. "Will you do me the honor of returning? Perhaps . . . tomorrow night?"</p><p>"Yes . . . tomorrow. . ." Louis was fumbling for his coat, he was grasping at the door but he still could not tear his eyes away from that sad, longing gaze, and not until he had fled down the hallway and out the front door, not until the first shocking gust had slapped him in the face was he able to draw a breath, to let go of the spell of art and desire.</p><p>It was almost four in the morning before he returned to the penthouse, but as soon as he stepped off the elevator he could hear music and raucous laughter coming from behind the closed door. He let himself in to find an array of drunken mortals, playing with the stereo and nursing double drinks. Lestat sat grinning on the couch, the red-headed woman, Marjorie, beside him with her feet on his lap, her tight grey skirt riding up her thighs to the tops of her expensive black pantyhose. Louis stood in the doorway unnoticed for almost five minutes before Lestat looked up.</p><p>"You're back!" he exclaimed, leaping to his feet and shoving Marjorie's rising arms away. "And you're warm," he added in a voice too low to be caught by the other cavorters as he reached out to brush Louis' cheek with his fingers. Louis flinched away from his touch. He'd killed a nineteen-year-old hoodlum. A child. Lestat ignored the gesture and slipped an arm around Louis' waist.</p><p>"I've invited some friends over," he explained.</p><p>"So I see."</p><p>Lestat grinned. "I thought I might introduce you. Where were you, anyway?"</p><p>The lie popped out before Louis could stop it. "Nowhere. Just walking." He was shocked at himself: why hide such a harmless thing? He'd been with Marius, painting with Marius. Surely Lestat would be able to hear the lie in his voice, would demand to know what he was hiding. But no, Lestat had barely heard him: he'd accepted that as an expected answer and was now turning to his guests, demanding their attention.</p><p>"All right, my lovely ones, time for you to go home," he announced.</p><p>"Oh, Andrei, don't say that!" whined a thirty-something with blonde hair to her waist and a black wool turtleneck. Her eyes shone with excitement and booze.</p><p>"Why don't you come home with me and I'll make you breakfast?" Marjorie purred. She was propped up on one elbow on the couch and the hand that held her drink was wobbling unsteadily. Lestat grinned again.</p><p>"Not tonight, Cherie." He turned to Louis and his smile became daring, seductive. "My friend and I have some business to attend to."</p><p>~</p><p>That morning, lying in Lestat's arms in the faintest hint of pre-dawn glow, Louis told himself he would not be returning to the downtown studio apartment. He had a great deal of respect for Marius, something to do with awe at the resiliency of spirit necessary for a soul to retain its wisdom and graciousness through so many centuries, so many oceans of spilled blood, and it pained Louis to break his promise to such a being. But he had no reason to return: he was a bit astonished at himself for having the audacity to arrive unannounced in the first place. As the electronically-timed curtains closed over the city still adrift in the jostling dreams of six million inhabitants, Louis brushed his finger over the faintly smiling lips of his lover. Lestat's was the only companionship he needed, would ever need.</p><p>And yet, after waking to find himself once more alone and spending a restless hour prowling through the apartment, Louis found himself out on the street, walking down familiar streets towards the address that had been burning somewhere in his subconscious since the night before. Within an hour he stood before a delighted Julia, who drew him in with both hands towards the seductive flickering lights of the hallway.</p><p>Louis had discovered, through much experience, that even under the most extraordinary or devastating of circumstances life had a tendency to gravitate towards routine. Every sunset he would rise to find Lestat long since vanished, and every morning he would return to find the place alive and ringing with mortal laughter, beautiful women with their arms draped about Lestat's neck while his eyes shone with mirth. The nights in between Louis spent with Marius.</p><p>Even the act of creation settled into a routine, and Louis began to feel free and easy at the studio as Marius' work progressed. He would enter the doorway, politely refusing Julia's perfunctory offer of tea or coffee, and follow her into the room where Marius inevitably stood waiting. Sometimes Marius would show Louis other works, half-finished paintings where figures and faces swam unformed in a sea of color, and once they spent almost the entire night in discussing art history and eventually Renaissance politics, at Louis' request. But mostly they painted, Louis trying to ignore the way his body smote under that hot, possessive stare as Marius memorized every detail, every line and curve in the same way that Lestat's hands would sometimes roam over his body, exploring, demanding, covetous. He told himself that he was only doing Marius a favor, that he was keeping out of Lestat's way -- but it was with a despairing shame that he secretly craved those eyes on his body. It was a touch as sensual as any he'd ever known, the unique caress of the portrait-drawer, demanding of Louis grace and beauty and obedience, holding him captive with a flick of a wrist, a splash of paint onto a page.</p><p>When they spoke, Marius showed him a kindness and an empathy which Louis found deeply moving -- but when he worked some strange heat simmered in Marius' eyes and brow that Louis had never seen, a lust for his work and for perfection that both thrilled and terrified. Each night Louis was left drained and exhausted, his head swimming with confused, unshaped fantasies, appalled by and helplessly drawn to the thinly-veiled desire in Marius' eyes as he issued the next night's invitation.</p><p>Always, Louis hurried back to the Manhattan hotel, half-afraid that Lestat would be gone or that he would somehow be able to read the guilt in Louis' eyes, to smell the desire baked into his skin. But Lestat was always there, and if he was unattended by mortal lovers and admirers he would be full of gritty and delicious tales of his night's escapades. And Louis, relieved by the almost painful rush of love that filled him, would tell Lestat that he'd only been out walking, confident that he would not be returning again to Marius and his unspoken temptations, sure that he would never come again until he found himself there the next time.</p><p>Always, each night the same. By the middle of the third week the studio room was singing with electricity and roiled tension, and Louis found it difficult to think or hear above the sound of his own beating heart. He'd been posing for what seemed like hours one night when he realized Marius had been calling his name for quite some time.</p><p>"Louis?" he looked up, startled. The master painter was standing behind his easel, dripping brush in hand.</p><p>"Yes, Marius?" Marius cleared his throat.</p><p>"Louis, could I at all prevail upon you to . . . remove your shirt?"</p><p>Louis swallowed, conscious of a feeling of impending disaster, of stakes rising towards unmitigated temperatures. Stop it, he's only being professional, he told himself fiercely. "If you think it's necessary," he replied.</p><p>"If you feel at all uncomfortable, you mustn't let me coerce you," Marius said seriously. He smiled. "As a painter I long for definition . . . sinews, muscles. But it isn't necessary, really."</p><p>"I don't mind." Slowly, tentative, Louis unbuttoned the thin garment and slipped it off his narrow shoulders. He held it balled against his stomach a moment, defensively. "Is . . . is this all right?" he whispered.</p><p>Marius walked around to the center of the room, to Louis. He reached out and carefully drew the garment away from Louis' hands, dropped it onto the floor. "Yes," he murmured. "Please relax, Louis. Let your arms down -- here." Marius; hands were suddenly moving against Louis' bare skin, arranging his limbs, shifting his frame. He stepped back, looking somehow shaken. "Yes, that's perfect."</p><p>Louis stood where Marius had place him, his mind aching with some nameless need that had been stirred at the feel of those powerful hands. His skin burned where Marius had touched him.</p><p>Marius reached for a paintbrush, raised it to the easel, then lowered it. "You --" he began. He dropped his forehead into one hand suddenly, kneading the skin around his eyes. "Forgive me," he said hoarsely.</p><p>"I don't understand," Louis whispered. Marius looked up at him.</p><p>"Beautiful, you are so beautiful," he breathed. Louis took a step backwards. Warning signals flashed in his brain and he felt suddenly too exposed, too vulnerable, as if the core of his being was in danger of melting in the face of this sudden overwhelming heat.</p><p>"Wh-what?"</p><p>"Do you even know?" Marius walked slowly towards him, and this time when his hands reached out it was not to turn Louis to some more accessible pose but to bring him closer, into his arms, and Louis closed his eyes, as he raised his touch Marius' mouth with his, his arms sliding around the powerful shoulders, his hands twisting into claws as he twisted them into the heavy fullness of Marius' hair. His whole body suddenly stung throbbed with heightened sensitivity: the starch of cloth scratched against the bare skin of his chest and stomach as he pressed himself into Marius' arms, and he groaned into the deepening kiss as he felt Marius' hands, in response, brutally kneading his shoulders, gliding down to clutch at the small of his back.</p><p>Abruptly, Louis pushed away, felt himself being released. Marius was staring at him as he backed away, wild-eyed. "Louis, I'm sorry, I didn't mean --"</p><p>"Stay away from me," Louis warned. His voice was trembling, unrecognizable. "Don't touch me." He fumbled for his shirt and drew it on, his hands shaking.</p><p>Marius' face was openly wounded. "I don't understand. . ." Louis grabbed his coat from where it lay across a chair back, backing towards the door and wrestling it open with his eyes still on Marius.</p><p>"I can't -- I can't --" he choked, and only when Marius dropped his eyes in pained bafflement was he able to turn and flee the room, stumbling down the hallway and into the bitter cold of the avenues that awaited him.</p><p>The wind was like a punishing slap to the skin, the clear freezing air caustic and chill within his lungs, but even these brutal elements were not cold enough -- Louis was burning as he tumbled through alleys and down icy, deserted streets. A block from the penthouse he slowed his pace and began to walk with his arms drawn tightly around his body: his skin was like ice to the touch and yet he was numb to sensation, feeling only guilt and confusion and this maddening, unloosening heat, as if the shape of Marius' lips and fingers had been branded onto his skin. Bending suddenly to the edge of the pavement he filled his hands with the street-tainted snow and pressed it to his face, shuddering. Ice and gravel bit into his skin and drops of melted ice water rolled down his neck, and Louis rubbed harder, gasping as stale gray water ran into his mouth and eyes.</p><p>What had happened in that studio was unprecedented, unimaginable. This was nothing he needed, nothing he'd ever wanted, the taste of unfamiliar lips against his own: and yet he was shaking with desire as he opened the glass doors, as he made his way to the elevator.</p><p>Lestat. If he could only find Lestat everything would be alright, would be normal, and Louis prayed that his maker was waiting in their penthouse, and alone. That was where things made sense: in Lestat's arms, he was where he belonged, what he was meant to be: a demon, weak and afraid but peaceful. That was the only serenity he knew, the fierce deadly glow of his maker was the only light for him. Louis' breathing was calmer as he walked down the hall, as he inserted his key and heard the tumblers slide back. He walked into the apartment. It had all been a mistake, he should never have approached Marius in the first place. After all, if he didn't need Lestat, then what did he have left to sustain himself?</p><p>"Lestat --" the name died on his lips as Lestat pulled away from the throat of the woman on the couch.</p><p>"Louis?" his voice was slurred, disoriented: his eyes were cloudy with the swoon. Marjorie struggled to sit up, her hair falling over her too-flushed face as she blinked her eyes furiously, fighting for focus, for coherent vision.</p><p>"Andrei?" She stared at him, the collar of her dark blouse pushed back to expose a throat that was rouged with blood, her blood. She had no idea as she lifted an incredulous hand. "Your mouth -- it's bleeding!" Lestat looked at her, as if he'd forgotten she was there.</p><p>"Bleeding," he repeated.</p><p>"It's your blood," Louis told the woman coldly. "Lestat, what have you done?" Lestat was holding a hand to his head.</p><p>"Louis, I -- I didn't mean to, I didn't realize --"</p><p>"My blood," Marjorie broke in. Her voice was ragged, disbelieving. "Oh my, god, it's my blood! Jesus Christ what did you do to me!" Her hands were on her bloody throat, she was scratching at the wound with her nails.</p><p>"Stop her!" Louis was shouting, but Lestat could only stare, stupefied.</p><p>"Marjorie," Lestat said. "Calm down."</p><p>But she would not calm down: she had risen from the couch and staggered about the room, waving her bloody palms before her face. "You're sick!" She was screaming. "You fucking sicko, don't come near me!"</p><p>"Stop her," Louis begged.</p><p>The wound was not deep. It was a little drink from which she would have recovered. But she was wild with terror now, as Lestat crossed his legs and spread his arms across the couch, watching her with slant-eyed fascination, she was stumbling over the elegant glass coffee table, sending the large decorative vase smashing to pieces. She was screaming, screaming, and she didn't even notice when Louis grabbed her from behind, the slippery material of her skirt cool against his fingers, and sunk his fangs into the base of her neck.</p><p>She went rigid against him and immediately her hands flew behind her, towards this unseen assailant. They fell together in a heap, in a swoon, and when Louis at last released her she was still.</p><p>She lay on the floor, her skin white and lucid under the soft glow of the lamps, her hands, still at last, curled gracefully at her breast, her neck twisted, elongated into swanlike proportions by the brutality of her death. A crimson stain spread at her throat like blossoming rose, petal after petal gleaming against the torn fabric of her shirt, the smooth dark floor beneath her. Louis dipped his fingers in it and held them to his lips. She was beautiful. She was death made beautiful.</p><p>"Are you alright?" Lestat was asking behind him, and Louis rose with the blood of this woman burning in his veins. "What a mess, my god. We'll have to clean this up right away. I didn't mean to bite her, only she kept kissing me and she was so warm Louis, so warm . . ." Louis was not listening.</p><p>He was staring at Lestat, and in his mind were thoughts of beauty and destruction and the insignificance of loyalty to a race of immortals. He thought of the absurdity of looking for honor in the immitigable depths of damnation.</p><p>"Louis, at least say something, for god's sake. Alright, I messed up, I'm sorry."</p><p>Louis looked at Marjorie again, looked at the curve of her body and noticed the way her hair hung like flame over one white cheek, noticed the tiny drop of blood on her lower lip that was the brightest color in the room. Yes, this, death made beautiful. Evil and love, the exquisite sensuality of pain and fear that only the truly damned can know.</p><p>"I don't owe you anything," he said softly.</p><p>"What?" Louis looked up at Lestat: he backed towards the door.</p><p>"I don't owe you anything," he repeated calmly, and felt something begin to break.</p><p>"Louis, what are you talking about?"</p><p>He turned and ran.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For the second time that night, he was running, only this time, incredibly, he was laughing, laughing wild and loud and out of control as he pushed open the door to the stairwell, leaving a bloody handprint. He could head Lestat shouting behind him, telling him to come back, that it was too close to dawn, and then he was down the stairs and out the double doors, and the coldness of the air was not a slap this time but a caress that he accepted, an icy loveless caress that only he could accept, could appreciate. He ran like a drunk man, like a lunatic, and his laughter was born not out of amusement but a freedom so complete and so suddenly thrust upon him it was terrifying. He laughed all the way back to the studio, and only when the great door opened under his pounding fist and Marius' eyes bore through his own in the darkness did the smile die from his lips.</p><p>"Am I too late?" he asked.</p><p>The flabbergasted expression on Marius' face almost sent Louis sailing into gales of laughter again, but he managed to swallow the threat of hilarity as he slipped around the Roman into the hallway.</p><p>"Louis --" Marius was clearly at a loss: he opened his mouth, closed it, his brows creasing as he turned to shut the door. "Too late for what?"</p><p>Louis paused before the door of the studio to look back at him. "To paint, of course," he replied as he left the hallway.</p><p>He could hear Marius sigh and then follow him towards the room. He watched Louis remove his coat fluidly and lay it on the chair beside him. "Louis, I swear I had no intention of seducing you when I asked you to come here," he said huskily. "You must believe me -- I have a great deal of respect for you --"</p><p>Louis laughed. "Is that what you think this is?" he said softly as he slipped out of his shirt and laid that, too, on the wooden chair. "The temptation of the stoic? Weakening of the virgin?"</p><p>"What are you doing?" Marius whispered.</p><p>Louis unbuckled his belt and slid the wool trousers over his slender hips. He'd already removed his boots. "I am not an innocent," he said. "I am a monster."</p><p>Marius' face softened and he stepped towards him. "Oh, Louis . . ."</p><p>"No!" Louis held up a hand, then smiled. "It's all right. Each night I take a life, each night, you do as well. We are murders, you and I -- we are despicable. So is Lestat." He raised his head. "Wanting you is the least of my evils. I was absurd to think myself incorruptible. I am corruption."</p><p>"But Louis --"</p><p>"Please let me finish."</p><p>Marius paused, then bowed his head.</p><p>"I am not bitter tonight, Marius. Just enlightened." He stepped forward slightly. "I want you to paint me," he said, his voice low and feverish. "Like this. I want to live in your world for just tonight. I want to let go of my guilt for these few hours. Make me real, Marius. Make me beautiful."</p><p>"This is not a good idea," Marius said, but his eyes were racing up and down Louis' body, and Louis could see that the painter within him was noting the texture of his skin and the curves and hollows of his limbs in the dim light. Louis did not respond, nor did he drop his eyes, and when Marius turned to reach for his palate and easel it was like an acquiescence, a deferral to Louis' beauty.</p><p>"Thank you," Louis whispered, but Marius was lost in the throes of creativity and Louis' words fell on deaf ears.</p><p>The painting was intense. It seemed to go on for hours, although it could not have been forty minutes, incredibly, before Marius threw the steaming brush to the ground. Louis stood immobile through it all, relishing the heat of Marius' stare -- and yet he felt as though his entire body was in motion, was hurtling towards the moment when the painting was finished and Marius came towards him and pulled him roughly into his arms.</p><p>He was ready, had been ready since he left the penthouse earlier that night, and he returned Marius' kiss hungrily. Lestat liked to tease him, to make his caresses light and frustratingly unfulfilling until Louis was weak and filled with desire almost to the point of tears. But with Marius everything was slow and heartfelt, each touch a brush stroke, each kiss a tableau. Louis closed his eyes as he felt a hand slide under his knees, as he was suddenly lifted and laid gently on the long, low table at the end of the room, sending piles of charcoal sketches fluttering to the floor. He felt lips on his collarbone, his stomach, his thigh, and his hands twisted into a mane of yellow hair that was lighter and coarser than Lestat's as he cried out in pleasure.</p><p>Before Marius bent to the vein in his throat he looked deep into Louis' eyes, a question, and Louis nodded his answer, too overwhelmed to speak. The ache of Marius' teeth in his neck made him scream, and when Marius, alarmed, moved to release him Louis' arms pressed harder against his back. They swooned together, connected, combined, and then suddenly they were separate again, lying together on the low table, their breath rapid and hoarse.</p><p>"I must leave," Louis managed to whisper when he was able to speak. "I shouldn't stay here."</p><p>"You can't. It's almost dawn." Marius rose, pulling Louis up beside him, and with his arm around the weakened vampire lead him out the door of the room, down the hallway to a windowless bedroom. The sheets on the four-poster bed were soft and warm, and Louis let Marius take him into his arms and stroke his hair.</p><p>"You know this will be the only time," Louis said, his voice muffled and intimate against Marius' chest.</p><p>"I know."</p><p>"It was just something I had to do --"</p><p>"Shh. I know."</p><p>And he closed his eyes to wait for the dawn, listening to the faint angry scream of wind outside the building.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He woke in a panic with Lestat on his mind.</p>
<p>"You don't understand," he insisted when Marius urged him to calm down. "He'll be furious." Marius had offered to walk him home but Louis had insisted he stay behind. He had to face Lestat alone, and the sooner he did it the better. Marius did not try to stop Louis when he left, did not touch him except to squeeze his shoulder lightly, did not even allude to the events of the night before. Louis was grateful. He had already said what needed to be said, and while he had no regrets was ready to put the experience behind him.</p>
<p>He hurried back to the penthouse, stopping when unbearable thirst dictated: Marius had taken much from him and he had refused, as always, to drink himself. When he opened the door and walked through the rooms his first impression was that Lestat was gone. When he entered the unlit bedroom and saw the familiar shape of his maker in a chair in the corner his heart was immediately seized with dread. He walked in the room, feeling Lestat's eyes on him. He had no idea what to do, how to begin.</p>
<p>The silence was pressing down on him, buzzing with apprehensive electricity, and finally he felt if he didn't do something to break it he would throw himself at Lestat with a battle cry.</p>
<p>"Hello," he said as lightly as he could.</p>
<p>"Hello." The single word, low and silky in the darkness, was dripping with menace and Louis felt his heartbeat quicken. He casually draped his jacket across the bed, making his way towards the chair where Lestat brooded, a vague tense shape in the dimness, the electric lights of the city behind him etching his hair and face with eerie false moonlight.</p>
<p>"Why are you sitting here in the dark?"</p>
<p>"I was waiting for you." A pause.</p>
<p>Louis hesitated to speak again: Lestat's anger was palpable: it was a taste, a smell, noiseless and deadly as lightning. "When did you --"</p>
<p>"Where the hell were you?" Lestat interrupted.</p>
<p>Louis took a deep breath, feeling the quick pulse of panic rise in his chest. Surely Lestat would see through him, even if he couldn't read his mind he would be able to read the fear in his eyes. But he was simply waiting for an answer, a coiled snake in the darkness.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry how I left last night," Louis said, smiling. Lestat did not smile back or respond. "And I'm sorry if you were . . . worried." An eyebrow was raised at this. "It was too close to dawn to come back safely, or of course I would have returned."</p>
<p>Lestat's soft, malevolent laughter raised the hair all over Louis' body. "Liar." He rose, a lengthening shadow in the darkness, and Louis braced himself for the explosion of violence that was, he now realized with a sinking feeling, inevitable. His heartbeat was thudding in his temples. Lestat seemed to be moving with infinite slowness, and yet Louis could do nothing but stand there mute, his ears suddenly ringing with danger, all his arguments forgotten. Lestat stood before him now, and yet he could do nothing, he thought to raise his arms to protect himself but they were leaden at his side, and before he could speak Lestat lifted his hand and cracked him viciously across the face.</p>
<p>Louis was hurled to the floor, his head filled for an instant with blind pain, and the room swam before him as he felt himself being lifted, slammed against the wall. Lestat's face was inches from his own, his hands were around Louis' throat. Louis gasped for breath, unable to shake the vertigo of sudden movement. Blood was in his mouth and he swallowed it.</p>
<p>"Where were you!" Lestat's face, contorted with rage, a demon's face, a vengeful angel, his words a roar.</p>
<p>Louis struggled to speak and couldn't, the tears rising blindly as Lestat increased the pressure.</p>
<p>If he could only speak, could only make him understand. . .</p>
<p>"Lestat," he whispered hoarsely. "Wait --" and then he was airborne again, stumbling against the wooden dresser that broke his fall, and before he could draw air into his lungs he felt arms seize him and Lestat's mouth devouring his own.</p>
<p>He struggled wildly against the embrace, fighting desperately as Lestat forced his mouth open, sinking his teeth savagely into Louis' lower lip. Louis felt nails on his back, and the thin shirt he was wearing was ripped away as he twisted and fought. All at once Lestat released him and he stumbled forward, swinging his fists wildly and gasping. Lestat was watching him, his chest heaving.</p>
<p>"Lestat," Louis managed to choke. "Please. You have to --"</p>
<p>"Have to what?" Lestat circled him slowly, predatorily. "Have to understand?" His fist came out of nowhere: Louis was on the ground before he realized he'd been hit.</p>
<p>"Where were you?" The words were quiet: worse than a roar, a whisper so full of threat Louis could almost feel them against his skin like bullets. Lestat's glare was hot, fierce, and Louis felt his fear draining away to be replaced by fury, vengeful, blinding fury as he stared at his maker.</p>
<p>"I was with Marius," he hissed. "All night. I've been with Marius every night we've been in New York." Lestat's eyes were widening: the irises were a livid blue.</p>
<p>"I let him touch me," Louis continued, surprised at how easily flung were these weapons of love, these cruel, stinging words. "I let him drink my blood."</p>
<p>Lestat's face registered shock, anger, and, finally, raw pain. Louis watched the transformation, waiting for a response. His body tensed when Lestat moved, but it was only to rise, to turn and leave the room.</p>
<p>Louis let out a breath. He had been expecting blows, curses. Somehow this was worse, this silent resignation that was so unlike Lestat.</p>
<p>He rose and walked to the living room: Lestat was sitting with his back to the doorway, and Louis came to lay a hand on his shoulder.</p>
<p>"Why?" Lestat asked softly.</p>
<p>Louis felt as though his heart were breaking. "I had to," he explained. "I was dying. I was losing myself. I wanted to lose myself."</p>
<p>"And Marius brought you back."</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"Not me."</p>
<p>"It's not like that --"</p>
<p>"Then what, Louis?" There was no anger in Lestat's voice, only hurt.</p>
<p>Louis walked around the chair to kneel before him. "This had nothing to do with you, Lestat. This had to do with me. For once, just me." Lestat held his gaze for a moment, then turned away. Louis continued regardless. "I had to learn to separate myself from what I am. The only way I could do that was by letting Marius paint me."</p>
<p>"And fuck you," Lestat added.</p>
<p>Louis chose to ignore that. It was juvenile, even for Lestat.</p>
<p>"Marius drank from me because I wanted him to," Louis said. Lestat stiffened, and Louis grabbed one of his hands and brought is to his face. "But you know that I only want you. If you don't want me I won't go back to him." There was no reply. "How can you begrudge me this? You've never spoken to me of fidelity, never."</p>
<p>"I know." Lestat's voice was almost unintelligible.</p>
<p>"I love you," Louis said.</p>
<p>Lestat turned to look at him at last, and his eyes were troubled and miserable but clear.</p>
<p>The door chimes buzzed.</p>
<p>"Who the hell is that?" Lestat asked aloud.</p>
<p>"Don't answer it," Louis suggested. But Lestat was rising, moving towards the door, and Louis had no choice but to follow.</p>
<p>The delivery boy held a large, flat, rectangular object wrapped in paper.</p>
<p>"Are you the Marquis?" he asked, after taking in their torn clothing and the blood on Louis' face rather nervously.</p>
<p>"I suppose so," Lestat answered.</p>
<p>The boy handed him the object. "Delivery from a Mr. Romanus," he said. "Have a nice day sir -- sirs . . ." he was backing towards the elevator, and Lestat closed the door without responding.</p>
<p>"What is this?" he asked Louis accusingly.</p>
<p>Louis shrugged, although he had some idea. He watched Lestat tear the paper away and prop the painting on a nearby coffee table.</p>
<p>It was exquisite. It was magnificent. Louis was a young Greek hero, a marble statue brought to life on canvas. The luminescence of his skin was mixed by a master hand, and the dim hallway seemed suddenly lighter as thought the painting gave off a clear lucidity of its own. The lean muscled calves, the strong set of the mouth, the way shape of the black hair that swept over Louis' forehead could not have been more lovingly drawn, more skillfully fleshed. The look in his eyes was one of desire, of brilliance and strength. He did not look like a mortal, as Pandora had in the gallery that seemed so long ago. He looked like a god.</p>
<p>Louis waited as a quarter hour slipped away. Even when Lestat finally spoke he did not remove his eyes from the creation before him.</p>
<p>"Louis."</p>
<p>"Yes, Lestat."</p>
<p>"It's beautiful. You're beautiful." He lapsed back into silence, and Louis turned his eyes to the painting as well. This was himself as he wanted to be, himself as a creature with a soul that was not blackened by guilt and self-loathing. He did not see his sins when he looked at this portrait. He did not see death.</p>
<p>"Can we go home now?" Lestat asked, his gaze still rooted.</p>
<p>Louis found his hand again, held it. "Yes. We can go home."</p>
<p>And they stood together in the hallway, the light from the painting tracing their features with infinite softness and infinite grace, as the lights of the city pulsed in the streets outside.</p>
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